


Boots

by Pixial



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixial/pseuds/Pixial
Summary: McCree lost a bet. Whatever it was, Hanzo thinks he's won.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 3
Kudos: 77





	Boots

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old old fic I found in my archives and I guess I never cross-posted it? So here's this.
> 
> I'll add more tags later bc tagging on mobile is damn near impossible.

It was a normal, even calm morning for the residents of Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Those inclined to mornings were gathered for the morning ritual of coffee and breakfasts of various dubious quality, much to the good doctor Ziegler’s despair. Not that she had room to complain, Hanzo thought, given that her breakfast was essentially a giant mug of black-as-death brew and a bowl of granola.

It was actually quite peaceful for once, or at least. It was. The door burst open, admitting one Genji Shimada with a maniacal, shit-eating grin that immediately put his elder brother on guard. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the disturbance!” he proclaimed, not looking sorry at all. The sound of a twangy guitar began to filter from the speaker system. “But may I introduce to you the one, the only, Jesse McCree!”

He jumped to the side and the space he left was filled with the man himself, with an expression of grim determination. Dressed in thigh high heels of terrifying heights, daisy dukes, and the sparkliest crop top that had surely ever had the misfortune of being created. The room was stunned to silence. Somewhere, Hana dropped her bag of chips.

McCree somehow forced his face to contort into an expression that managed to be both cocky and lazy while promising death imminent for his partner in crime. A woman’s voice joined the guitar, singing a truly ancient song about boots and cheating. McCree lipsang along, shuffling into a line dance.

It was honestly an…. Impressive display. McCree was far more nimble than one would guess. The shock broke with a whoop from Lucio, and soon the assembled agents began singing along and cheering. Or most of them. Hanzo was still paralyzed (or perhaps mesmerized?) by McCree’s bare legs.

McCree himself seemed to loosen up amid the encouragement, cracking a smile and throwing a wink over at his stunned boyfriend. Hanzo felt a little like dying.

“Are you ready, boots?” the singer asked, and the entire world shifted on its axis. The music kicked into high gear, and so did McCree. It shouldn’t have been possible for an alcoholic, chain-smoking vigilante nearing his forties to throw a high kick nearly straight in the air, and yet he somehow managed. It also shouldn’t have been possible for said vigilante to do a near-perfect example of the splits, and yet…

Hanzo was going to die. 

Finally the song ended with laughing cheers and applause. McCree stood up with a laugh and bowed before moving to flop down in the chair next to Hanzo.

“Mornin’, sugar,” he said brightly. Hanzo gaped at him. “Don’t s’ppose I could snag some of your coffee?”

Hanzo just wordlessly shook his head and slid his mostly-full mug towards McCree. Whatever bet this was about, he didn’t want to know.

He did, however, want to know just how McCree managed to find daisy dukes in his size and whether or not he’d keep wearing them.


End file.
